


To Be Praised

by LookBetweenTheLines



Series: Complaints of a Hero [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Ale and Wine, Boys Kissing, Drinking, Drunk Kissing, Drunkenness, Lots of it, M/M, Revelry at Camp Dragonhead, Violin Music, a realm reborn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-20 09:36:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19374043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LookBetweenTheLines/pseuds/LookBetweenTheLines
Summary: After the hard-won battle in the Howling Eye, the very last thing Z'kila wanted to do was hurry off to the next available crisis. So he sneaked away from his adolescent handler and their new engineer to find some better, more grateful company following his victory.He did not expect a party.But he went with it.





	1. Warmth of Revelry

**Author's Note:**

> So this takes place just after the Garuda trial during A Realm Reborn, about level 44ish. I thought it was unfair that our WoL has to be whisked straight from one emergency to the next without any downtime, so Z'kila made some for himself. Much to Master Alphinaud's chagrin.  
> This does contain two men kissing whilst drunk so you could argue non-con there, but nothing else happens, don't worry.

Garuda had been something of a tough foe to say the least. After Ifrit Z’kila had forsaken his bow in primal encounters simply because his arrows seemed to get lost in their aethereal bodies. With his knives he could feel the resistance of their physicality with every strike, knew for certain of the damage he was doing. It had been a tough fight for certain but he found being up close and personal with the Lady of the Vortex came with a thrill that was absent when he fought with his bow. He hadn’t known wind could be so _sharp._ It had torn at his coat, cut through his exposed skin without leaving a trace and thrown he and the recruits he’d managed to find for this endeavour about the place like mere ragdolls.

Nevertheless it had been…really rather enjoyable. There had been so much terror when he faced Ifrit that there’d been no room on his emotional spectrum for anything else and Titan… Well, he didn’t talk about Titan, not even to himself.

The bout with Garuda had felt like hours, trying to avoid the _air_ of all things while landing blow after blow, cutting at her arms, her wings, her pitiful excuses of legs, anything they could reach. Once she was down and the victory was theirs, there was a certain satisfaction to the bruises he’d accumulated. Not even the unwelcome arrival of the Black Wolf with his Ultima Weapon could dampen his spirits. Not everyone shared his sentiments, though. The mage had grumbled the entire way back to Ul’dah and both Alphinaud and Cid wore expression that told of a very real fear for the realm.

Truth be told, Z’kila had been feeling rather pleased with himself as they made for Thanalan but listening to the others talk or otherwise look simply gloomy irritated him. The Garleans with their new toy were something of an immediate threat, aye, but they’d achieved what they’d set out to do and the primals were no longer a threat. No one had so much as thanked him.

Stuck on the _Enterprise,_ Z’kila had found himself a quiet rope to cling to and hummed his favourite ditty to drown out the doomsday talk.

On the Airship Landing in Ul'dah Alphinaud had announced plans to return to the Waking Sands in the hope that some of the missing Scions may have returned. Internally Z'kila had slumped at the announcement. He’d bested a primal not six bells earlier and they were already on the move again. Not a moment to celebrate or even rest. Not one word of thanks. _Not one._

Cid rescued him by suggesting a night in the Quicksand before they made for Horizon, to which Alphinaud reluctantly agreed only when Z'kila put on some theatrics of being steps away from a coma.

‘At first light, then,’ he announced, though the way he said it made it sound more of a threat. There was an implied _or else_ that Z'kila desperately wished to mock.

He made a show of paying for his own room and hissed at Momodi's curiously raised eyebrow not to say anything when he didn’t hand over a single gil. Alphinaud was watching him suspiciously and Z'kila didn’t like it. He just wanted one night where he didn’t have to look at faces and listen to voices that seemed to expect the world's looming annihilation on any given day. One night.

So as soon as his companions retired to their rooms or otherwise made themselves scarce, Z'kila looked to Momodi and lifted a finger to his lips before casting _Teleport._ He spotted her grim expression of compliance before the Quicksand was gone.

The sun was yet to set in Coerthas and the fading daylight reflected off the snow a faint pink. Z'kila had but a moment to gather his bearings before he stopped short, gazing down across Camp Dragonhead's courtyard.

It was busy. Temple Knights of House Fortemps both in and out of Ishgardian colours meandered to and fro from kitchen to cellar to war room to mess hall and other doors he had yet to explore. And they all seemed happy; chattering away in groups of three or four, calling out to one another or sharing wine. It was an unexpected sight and, yes, Z'kila noted how grim that was.

‘Hark!’ an elezen in casual wear that had clearly been in his cups for a while already called up to him from the foot of the stone staircase. ‘It’s the adventurer of the hour!’

His words were punctuated by a fort-wide cheer.

Z'kila felt heat creep up his face. Everyone was looking at him. Worse, the shouty elezen with dark hair tied back in a ponytail was running up to meet him.

The drink was evident in his cheeks once he drew close and Z'kila had exactly enough time to think, _This was a mistake-_ before he was hauled off by the elbow.

‘Lord Haurchefant said he'd invited the adventurer and his companion but we all thought you’d be too busy to join us what with the celebration being so short notice and all that,’ chattered the elezen, hand clamped around Z’kila’s arm like he was dragging him to Witch Drop, not Camp Dragonhead's war room where the heart of the party seemed to be.

‘Is that so..?’ Z'kila asked weakly, letting himself be towed along. He thought he recognised his captor as one of the Knights that kept the braziers alight but it was difficult to be sure. Drink and dress could change a man.

Wait, what invitation was this?

Z’kila didn’t get a chance to ask, though. The doors to the war room had been propped open to reveal the revelry within. Ale and wine were both flowing free. Someone had found a violin and was playing—badly—from the corner. The chattering elezen presented him to the room with a flourishing sweep of his free arm and, probably without meaning to, threw him straight into the chest of one Lord Haurchefant.

Though this was the man Z’kila had come to speak to, face mushed into Haurchefant’s chainmail was not the way he wanted the conversation to start. His captor spluttered an apology, though to whom exactly was not clear, his hands flapping about like he could fan away the awkwardness.

‘Kila?’ said Haurchefant, hands on his shoulders to peel them apart.

‘Evening.’ Z’kila blinked away the bright spots in his vision. He couldn’t yet properly see the elezen’s face. ‘What’s all the drink and merriment about?’

Haurchefant stared at him. ‘Why, we are celebrating your triumph over the Lady of the Vortex, of course!’ Word had made it back to Camp Dragonhead that fast? Cid and Alphinaud had been too horrified by the revelation of van Baelsar’s Ultima Weapon to send reassurance to either Haurchefant or Francel that the danger was past and the adventurers had all come back to Ul’dah with them. ‘I sent Alphinaud an invitation for you all to join us but of course I thought you might have business elsewhere-’

Haurchefant went on, an arm sneaking around Z’kila’s shoulders to lead him into the heart of the gathering and leaving the flapping, apologising elezen behind.

Coerthas hadn’t been Z’kila’s favourite place when they first visited. Nearly everyone was taller than he was, even the number of hyuran knights. Two people total had to look up at Z’kila. There was one miqo’te woman that worked as a maid and, well, Alphinaud. Even though Haurchefant was a little overbearing and Z’kila had bristled when he’d first dropped the prefix from his name – which was perhaps the second time he’d ever addressed him – he soon grew used to and even started to enjoy the familiarity. Camp Dragonhead was, despite the climate, now one of Z’kila’s favoured places simply because he looked forward to easy conversation with the Commander.

Alphinaud had gotten a glare when he tried the same trick with Z’kila’s name.

‘Do you find cause to celebrate often?’ Z’kila asked now, waving to the various Knights and staff that spotted him.

‘Not so much,’ Haurchefant admitted. ‘The war with the Dravanians grows more dire by the day and those of us on the outskirts want for food and warmth on a frequent basis, let alone the luxuries of fun and relaxation.’ The way he spoke one would think he was talking about nothing more serious than scandalous gossip between the heirs of the High Houses. He beamed at Z’kila. ‘Your victory has been quite the reprieve for my knights. Any thanks I can give you would be sorely lacking.’

Z’kila cast a second glance around the vast hall. There was a group in the corner playing some kind of drink game. There was a couple in the corner speaking in hushed tones over their own cups. Even the maids seemed to be taking part of the celebration rather than serving the Knights. Z’kila even spotted some Haillenarte roses among the Fortemps unicorns. Some of the more inebriated Knights were dancing stiffly to the screeching of the poor violin.

‘I require no thanks, Haurchefant,’ said Z’kila. It was the sort of thing he had said with a pinch of irony in the past, especially in response to Minfilia’s meagre expressions of gratitude, but he meant it now.

‘You are too modest, my friend,’ Haurchefant praised. It wasn’t true at all and for one insane moment Z’kila wanted to reveal that to him. He held his tongue. ‘We have ale and wine in abundance but I might be able to scrounge up something stronger should you wish it. What can I get for you, Kila?’

Z’kila looked to the corner of the hall where the age-old violin was being abused. More than drink, if he was going to enjoy this celebration that had been organised in response to his victory, he wanted some decent music. If he was the one to provide it all the better.

‘I would like that thrice-damned instrument,’ he admitted to Haurchefant with a nod towards the torturer.

‘Ah,’ said the Commander, as though he had grown deaf to the noise and only just realised it was ongoing. ‘Certainly. Unfortunately we seem to be lacking talented musicians in our Camp-’

‘Not anymore,’ said Z’kila.

He turned on his heel and approached the hyur holding the violin more like a serpent he expected to turn around and bite him at any moment. He spotted Z’kila’s approach – miqo’te rarely went unnoticed in Coerthas, primal slayers or otherwise – and stopped playing with a squeak that could make lesser men’s ears bleed.

‘Might I make a request?’ Z’kila asked with a smile.

The hyuran knight nodded eagerly. Z’kila held his hands out for the violin and the bow. He expected the knight to be offended but all he got was a wide smile, the instrument thrust into his arms as the man in question darted past him to fetch a tankard from one of the table. Z’kila watched him go. The poor man hadn’t been given a drink since he picked up the damned instrument.

The long table in the centre of the war room had been cleared of maps and strategy papers to make way for drink in all its various (two) forms. Well aware that Haurchefant was watching him with open intrigue, Z’kila hopped up onto the table without spilling a drop from the many tankards, cups and goblets, put the violin to his shoulder and cleared his throat. It was nice to look down at everyone for once.

Jehantel had taught him the skills of a bard very well but Z’kila had been blessed with a good voice even before those lessons. There were many eyes on him long before he played the first strings and, perhaps because the Commander was watching him, because the miqo’te woman was looking up at him, because most of the knights were already laughing and shouting loudly with mirth, Z’kila played the fastest song he knew. It was a difficult piece, one he’d picked up in Limsa Lominsa during his many nights at the Wench that required both the glide of the bow and the strumming of fingers. Why did he feel the need to show off? Perchance he just wanted the attention for something other than killing things.

It didn’t have the same effect without the flute and drum accompaniments but his voice made up for it. He put on his best Lominsan accent and sang of a young boy’s imaginings of the adventures his father got up to at sea as a sailor. Z’kila enjoyed the attention his singing drew well enough but it got even better when knights and maids and butlers paired up to dance clumsily along with the music. Mayhap if they were all still sober no one would have dared. Some even attempted to sing along with him, making up words that vaguely matched the tune. Z’kila struggled to keep himself from laughing aloud as he watched and listened to them, a smile threatening to split his cheeks for the first time in moons.

The revelry had been a welcome, wholesome sight before. It was even better now. Singing and dancing without any formality, without any synchronicity; it reminded him of his tribe in a way that was bittersweet.

Haurchefant swept up one of the maids in a rough quickstep that was half skipping, half twirling. She was red in the face and did her best to keep up with him, laughing along with him at their shared clumsiness. Z’kila locked eyes with Haurchefant when he reached the bridge of the song and grinned, which the Commander mirrored mischievously. He played it all the way through twice without anybody noticing simply because he was reluctant to let the music stop for a moment lest people calm down.

He might have been stuck in a stuffy inn room all night with Alphinaud. The thought was terrible. Whoever said Coerthans were averse to fun?

When he did have to stop for a break, with a flamboyant bow to room-wide applause, he swept up one of the mostly-full tankards of ale by his feet without a care for whom it belonged to. His throat was beginning to scratch and he always played better if he was a little drunk.

He played into the night, watching knights and staff dance even beyond the doors into the courtyard. His tankard was refilled between every piece and sometimes someone shouted out the name of a particular song they wanted to hear. If Z'kila knew it, he would play it. If not, he would play something else and be sure to substitute at least one lyric for whatever title they’d asked for. One daring lady knight asked for something that sounded Ishgardian and, since Z'kila had downed about four cups of ale by that time, he just laughed. He was perhaps beyond the point of being able to sing by then anyway, but that didn’t stop his violin, which was all muscle memory and didn’t require much coherent thought.

In every break, Haurchfant was the one who applauded and cheered the loudest, smiling from ear to pointed ear. He might have been drunk or completely sober; difficult to tell with Haurchefant. Z'kila caught himself playing as though it was for Camp Dragonhead's Commander alone.

Sometime after the first bells of the morning he gestured for the miqo'te maid to join him on the table with a nod and a wink.

A little alcohol already in her system, she kicked off her shoes and bounded onto the table beside him.

He had been proud of not spilling any of the drink when he started. That point was long past now. Cups and goblets scattered the floor, most kicked under the table to avoid trampling them. Puddles of various liquids dotted the stonework. Now that Z’kila could see that the maid was also a Seeker, he began a piece that he hoped she would recognise: a fast melody that came with its own variety of step dance he used to enjoy during shared banquets between the Z and B tribes.

Her eyes lit up at the first few notes. To everyone's surprise she lifted the hem of her skirt and tucked one side into her sash to free her bare feet to dance unhindered. A few of the knights whistled or catcalled at the display of her calves but she gave them no notice and Z'kila thought the conservative jaw-to-floor dress suited her ill anyway. He tried to join her in the jig as best he could with the violin still on his shoulder. If there was ever a time to be proud of his tribal culture it was now, among a sea of world-weary knights that smiled and laughed as they attempted to imitate the dance. Of them all, Haurchefant was the best at it. To Z'kila's wobbling vision at least.

Dropping notes all over the place and not caring an ilm, Z'kila kept the jig going as long as his body allowed. The miqo'te maid admirably kept pace with him, both of them panting and laughing when either of them got it wrong.

Somewhere at the back of his mind Z'kila hoped someone important of Houses Durendaire or Dzemael would stumble across their little oasis in the desert simply for the novelty of seeing the sheer shock on their pinched faces.

The music ended quite suddenly when Z'kila dropped to one knee, which he disguised by taking another long gulp of ale from the tankard at his feet. Was it his? The Twelve knew. When he brought the drink down he was treated to the sight of double Haurchefant beaming double at him.

‘Wonderful, my friend, you were simply wonderful! What a talent you are, and so gracious as to share it with us humble folk!’

Words didn’t often make Z'kila feel soft on the inside but Haurchefant tended to have a knack for it. With the music ended people had stopped dancing but that didn’t spell the end of the celebration. Three of the tallest knights helped the maid down from the table as best they could whilst wobbling themselves. A group over Haurchefant's shoulder started singing in Ishgardian. At least Z'kila thought that’s what it was meant to be. It could have been Goblin for all he could tell. There was still loud chatter and laughter, plenty of ale and cheap wine still filling cups and goblets. Somewhere off the right Z'kila watched as though in slow motion the same elezen that had dragged him into this mess pass out in a heap against the wall. Z’kila empathised. Plenty of people nearby saw it happen and left him there.

Haurchefant went on, ‘As poor thanks as it is for all you’ve done for us and the realm at large, please know you are welcome in Camp Dragonhead anytime! Anytime at all, it will never be an inconvenience!’

Z'kila thought there was no greater thanks for his deeds than seeing people bask in the euphoria that came with beating the odds. What was the world worth saving for if not the people's right to enjoy it? This, right here on this night, was the reason Z'kila would keep fighting, he decided. No amount of gil or treasure could match this sight. Mayhap the ale was making him sentimental. Haurchefant's praise certainly was.

Like this, kneeling on the table, he was near enough eye level with Haurchefant. And because he didn’t trust his words to express the scale of his gratitude, especially not when he doubted he could string a coherent sentence together, Z'kila grabbed hold of Haurchefant's collar, pulled him close and kissed him hard on the mouth.

Someone noticed and gave a half-hearted cheer, and that, coupled with Haurchefant's tangible surprise, made Z'kila giggle.

‘O'yeah,’ he managed. ‘El’zen don’ kiss t'...’

‘Okay, then,’ Haurchefant mumbled with a bashful chortle, encouraging Z'kila to step down from the table and catching him when he tried to leap. ‘Let’s find you a bed, Kila. You’ve done quite enough entertaining for one night.’

‘S'it worth sleepin' now..?’

‘You can sleep as long as you wish, my friend.’

Leaning heavily on the Commander, Z'kila thought that wasn’t true. For...some reason. There was some reason he couldn’t sleep as long as he wanted. Something urgent. Relatively speaking. Bu that was an issue for the dawn and he placidly let Haurchefant lead him outside. The crisp, icy air did nothing to clear his head but he did feel slightly less nauseous. Out here the revelry was dying down somewhat, any remaining knights stumbling their way back to the barracks.

Z'kila was halfway to snoring before Haurchefant let him fall in a lump on a bed. Somewhere. Where were they? What part of the fort was this? He couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. Bed.

‘A warm breakfast will await you when you wake up, my friend.’

The words were Haurchefant's, sounding far away through a vast ocean of ale and sleepiness. Z'kila thought he said thanks. Maybe it was just a grateful grunt as he curled around the sheets.


	2. After the Fact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a second part. I don't really have the time to do this but it wouldn't go away until I wrote it down, so here we go!

Haurchefant was privy to the moment Camp Dragonhead began to reluctantly drag itself awake following the dawn. He himself hadn’t slept at all, favouring the quiet few bells between delirium and reality. He had been careful with his wine intake and a few cups of clean melted snow had seen off any possibility of a sore head. It had been enough of a pleasure to see the raised morale in his knights, even if it was just for the night. Further pleasure still to see Z'kila let loose and indulge himself. 

One of the doors opened a crack to admit Corentiaux, his lithe frame slipping into the war room. His forehead was fighting off a furrowed brow but otherwise he seemed to be faring rather well. He paused by Elsault, yet to be roused from his stupor, and decided against trying to wake him. He was supposed to be on the walls at first light but Haurchefant hadn’t had the heart to get him up. 

‘Good morning, Corentiaux,’ he greeted, keeping his voice as low as possible. 

The knight still winced. ‘My Lord.’ 

Haurchefant returned to the report on his desk to let him nurse his morning head under the guise of cleaning up the spilled mess on the war table. His papers outlined the specifics of recent Dravanian activity at the Steel Vigil and his attending knights, as they began to trickle in from Fury knew where they’d crashed, couldn’t do much other than their routine patrols of the walls and immediate surroundings until he was done with it. He watched one of the least incapacitated knights pull the map back onto the table for them to sit around and stare at. 

By noon the Camp was slightly livelier but there was still no sign of Z'kila.

‘D'khopni,’ Haurchefant called out to the maid before she could turn away after presenting him with his luncheon. ‘Did you take breakfast to our guest this morning?’

‘Of course, sir.’ Her face flushed pink and Haurchefant couldn’t tell if she was indignant at the question, headsore or bashful at the mention of Z'kila. ‘He didn’t touch his food, though, so I brought it back to the kitchen not a bell ago. I was going to try leaving some luncheon in his room next.’

Haurchefant was about to agree but changed his mind. It occurred to him that Z’kila might not even be in Coerthas still. He wasn’t sure he even got to say farewell to him the last time he was in Camp Dragonhead before they were gone, whisked off to Whitebrim in search of their airship. ‘Thank you, but I will take it to him myself. Make sure he’s well after last night's antics,’ he added at the suspicious narrowing of her frosty blue eyes. She simply curtseyed and made for the door. 

He couldn’t blame the lass if she did have a fancy for the adventurer. Z’kila was a particularly handsome creature and had a smile that suggested he knew it. Seeing him last night, all pretences washed away with the ale, had been a luxury indeed. There had been no mask, no battle of wits, no attempts to actively irritate anyone. Just simple joy in the act of living. And the genuine, naked smile he’d given Haurchefant right before he kissed him-

Haurchefant let his head fall onto his desk. The bang startled the few knights still around the map, several pairs of eyes to turning to gaze quizzically at their Commander.

_Stop it,_ Haurchefant scolded himself, rubbing the throbbing spot on his forehead. 

With a sigh, he set his quill down and stood with a stretch. Ignoring the stares of his knights, he picked up the tray with his luncheon neatly laid out and headed for the door. They should all be used to his eccentricities by now. None of them questioned or stopped him. The longer it took him to finish revising the Steel Vigil report the longer they had to recover. 

Balancing the tray on one hand, he knocked quietly on one of the guest rooms in the intercessory. No answer. He tried again, louder, but still no response from within.

Although he dreaded a peek inside in case his fears were founded, Haurchefant turned the handle and peered inside.

The room was as dark as the heavy curtains could manage, stand guard against the bright white daylight. The bed was a tangled mountain of blankets. He thought all three kept spare in the chest at the foot of the bed had been pulled on top of the mattress. Whether there was a Z’kila-shaped lump somewhere under there was anybody’s guess. His only clue was the glint of metal that caught the single beam of light that snuck through on the cabinet beneath the window. Daggers. Z’kila’s daggers, where Haurchefant had put them the night before. Relief rose unbidden in Haurchefant’s chest. He wouldn’t leave without his weapons.

‘Kila?’ he called softly.

A soft groan, heavily muffled by the blanket tower. Haurchefant stifled a chuckle. The first time he’d called him that Z’kila’s whole tail fluffed up like an angry house cat. It was adorable. _Stop!_ Haurchefant snapped at himself with a mental slap to his wrist. _Stop pining after the adventurer._

‘I have food for you,’ he offered. 

Another noise that more-than-implied, _Leave me alone._

‘Also Master Alphinaud is here to see you.’

The blankets toppled over with a yelp to reveal the scrabbling figure beneath, sitting up so fast he misjudged his position and ended up half falling off the mattress, his chest and arms on the wool rug and his legs still splayed out on the bed. His tail curved over his back like it wasn’t sure which half to join. 

Perhaps it was a mean trick and Haurchefant's amusement was dampened when Z'kila clutched at his ears with a sound that would put a dying aevis to shame. ‘Why would you do this to me?’ he whined, making no effort to get himself the right way up.

Haurchefant set the tray down on the small table in the corner of the room and hurried to his aid. ‘Here, let’s get you upright.’

‘I don’t know if I even have feet anymore,’ Z'kila moaned. ‘Just my huge fuckin' head.’ 

With much complaining, Haurchefant managed to heave Z'kila off the floor to sit on the edge of the mattress. His elbows leant on his knees and he hid his eyes behind his hands while Haurchefant rubbed his back. He hadn’t even removed his gear to sleep, the leather wrinkled all down his left side. Should he have done that for him last night? Would that have been the right thing to do? Surely Z'kila would have woken more confused without it. 

‘Mmf,’ said Z'kila, one hand patting his belt all the way around from one hip to the other. He sounded pained and Haurchefant followed his movements with his eyes, realising that he was looking for his blades. 

‘They’re just here, Kila,’ he said reassuringly, pointing them out to his covered eyes. 

Z’kila peeked through his fingers. He stared at the daggers resting innocently on the cabinet for a long moment without so much as blinking before seeming to decide they were okay to stay there. ‘My thanks. I would’ve probably stabbed myself in the arse or something equally stupid if you hadn’t taken them.’ 

‘It was nothing. I couldn’t leave a guest in such a state without due precaution, of course.’

Z’kila grunted at that. Then, with obvious difficulty, looked towards the door. ‘…Alphinaud’s not here, is he?’

Haurchefant suppressed a grin. ‘No, he is not. Forgive me.’ 

Z’kila grimaced. ‘I threw my linkshell off at some point. I think it was probably him. No idea where it went, though.’ 

‘It can easily be replaced,’ Haurchefant pointed out. He stood and gestured to the tray on the table. ‘Shall I await you outside? We can lunch in front of the fireplace.’ 

The adventurer flinched. ‘Lunch?’ He sighed and dropped his hands, smiling wistfully up at Haurchefant. ‘…I’ll be there shortly.’

‘Very well,’ said Haurchefant with a wide smile. 

He retrieved his tray from the corner of the room and left Z’kila to compose himself. The food had cooled somewhat since it was brought to him but it was still edible and, he hoped, would be welcome to a man in Z’kila’s state. The fire burned low, flames flickering a deep red around the firewood. Either it had been left unattended or D’khopni was deliberately keeping it at a low light for his guest’s sake. 

The man in question appeared before Haurchefant had chance to dwell much on the thought. Z’kila had done what he could to straighten out his leathers but it was still clear he had slept in them. He had tamed his hair back into it’s usual style, white feathers a little worse for wear, and his daggers were back in their sheaths. He looked as though the worst of his pain had passed, though his movements were still stiff and delicate like he was afraid of jostling his head too much. 

He took a seat at the long table opposite Haurchefant and cleared his throat, nose drawn to the tray almost subconsciously. Haurchefant pushed it toward him. ‘Please, help yourself.’ 

They shared the tray of bread and cheeses mostly in silence and Z’kila dared to try a cup of the tea in the pot. He sipped with a furrow between his brow. Haurchefant knew the expression: one of trying to recall events through a drunken haze. 

Z’kila set his cup back on its saucer with a clatter and met Haurchefant’s eyes. ‘Did I kiss you?’

Mayhap if he hadn’t been so unexpectedly forward and blunt about it Haurchefant would have been able to keep his face under control. As it was his eyebrows shot up and blood pooled in his cheeks, a flash of the memory of those rough and chapped lips against his. 

Z’kila grimaced at the expression, scratching at the back of one ear, and averted his gaze. He didn’t look embarrassed exactly, simply…sheepish. ‘Forgive me,’ he said at length. ‘I must have forgotten where I was.’ 

‘There’s nothing to forgive, my friend,’ Haurchefant rushed to assure. ‘I was really quite flattered.’ 

Z’kila looked back and smiled. ‘Please don’t assume I meant anything by it. It was a…token of appreciation. For organising a celebration over what I did, even though there was a chance I wouldn’t come. Especially because a certain elezen didn’t even tell me about the invite,’ he added with a look of disdain directed at the teapot. 

‘You didn’t receive my invitation?’ Haurchefant asked. 

‘I’m sure Alphinaud did. He just didn’t mention it to Cid or me because he didn’t deem it important enough.’ He smiled wryly. ‘He tends to do things like that regardless of what anyone else might think.’ 

‘Then what was the purpose of your visit, Kila?’ Haurchefant couldn’t help enquiring. 

Z’kila’s cheeks took on a dusting of pink. ‘I just- I had hoped to speak with you. Nothing serious,’ he added quickly at Haurchefant’s expression. ‘Nothing at all, in fact. I was bored of saving the realm and wanted a rest. You know?’ He trailed off like he was ashamed of admitting it. 

It was a strange phenomenon, Haurchefant thought, that Z’kila could so brazenly kiss him and talk about it later like it was no more embarrassing than spilling a beverage but revealing that he sought out Haurchefant’s company seemed more like a confession of sin. 

Haurchefant smiled broadly. ‘You will always be welcome to seek conversation with me anytime, my friend.’ 

Z’kila’s shoulders slumped with something like relief. ‘My thanks.’ 

‘I must confess,’ said Haurchefant, shredding a strip of cheese between his fingers to layer it across a slice of bread, ‘that I have never received a kiss of appreciation before.’

‘I didn’t think I could say thanks with words at the time,’ Z’kila said with a snort. ‘It’s a miqo’te thing. I think. We kiss each other all the time without it having to mean anything romantic or sexual.’ He took a breath as though he was going to go on but stopped himself with a smile. ‘At least that’s how things were in my tribe.’ 

‘A fascinating practice, I must say,’ Haurchefant admitted. Culture was such a finicky thing. Growing up in Ishgard Haurchefant had learnt that affection, both physical and verbal, was strictly between married couples in the privacy of their own home. To hear that it could be so freely given in other cultures was somehow liberating. 

He was about to say as much when his linkshell chimed. Z’kila froze, bread slice mere ilms from his teeth, hearing it too. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ Haurchefant said and put a finger up to his ear. 

_‘Lord Haurchefant?’_ came the panicky address of one Master Alphinaud Leveilleur. 

‘Good afternoon, Master Alphinaud,’ replied Haurchefant, mostly just to give Z’kila some warning. The miqo’te dropped his bread and started to make the most frantic hand gestures that were moving too fast for him to even attempt to decode them. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’

_‘Forgive me if I skip the formalities,’_ said the young elezen. He was panting, like he was running and talking at the same time. _‘Have you heard word of Z’kila?’_

Z’kila stood abruptly, the chair screeching on the stonework. His shaking head, soreness apparently forgotten, and swinging arms did not need a translator for the most obvious _no_ Haurchefant had ever witnessed. 

It was tempting to agree. 

‘Forgive me, my friend,’ Haurchefant said to him, genuinely sorry to defy him. ‘You needn’t worry, Master Alphinaud, Kila spent the night in Camp Dragonhead. He’s perfectly safe and well, I assure you.’ 

‘I bloody well won’t be soon enough,’ Z’kila mumbled, sinking back into his seat and hiding in his hands. Perhaps he was regretting the headshaking, or otherwise dreading Alphinaud’s arrival. Mayhap both.

_‘He’s with you?’_ Alphinaud asked. _‘Please don’t let him leave until I arrive.’_

‘Of course not,’ Haurchefant said, but the boy had already disconnected. To Z’kila he said again, ‘Forgive me.’ 

Z’kila dismissed the apology with a wave of his hand. ‘No, you’re right. I need to go and finish whatever it is we’ve started.’ He smiled weakly up at Haurchefant. ‘Thank you again.’ 

‘I don’t get a kiss this time?’ Haurchefant asked, mostly joking. Partially joking. 

It made Z’kila laugh, and that was almost as good.

*

Haurchefant would have liked to say he sympathised with Z’kila’s plight when Master Alphinaud arrived and scolded him like one would a child that had wandered away from his parents in the marketplace. But he spent the entire exchange struggling to keep himself from laughing. Z’kila sat on one of the benches in the war room with his chin dipped low and his ears flattened while Alphinaud stood over him, berating his recklessness with as much vigour as he had pled their case on their first visit. 

He was sorry to see them leave once Alphinaud had run out of steam. For all his complaining Z’kila didn’t argue with or mock the young elezen once. He followed him to the door like a well-trained hound. 

At the door, however, he paused and glanced over his shoulder. When he found Haurchefant watching him he grinned and winked. 

Then he was gone. 

Haurchefant let his head fall onto his desk. Yaelle jumped away from the report she had been trying to retrieve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Shadowbringers, y'all.

**Author's Note:**

> I _may_ write a second part to this. Just to see what trouble it lands Z'kila in. We'll see.


End file.
